


Five Times Eames Was Mistaken For a Hooker

by Edoraslass



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Five Times, Gen, M/M, can be read as slash or gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what is says on the tin</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Eames Was Mistaken For a Hooker

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously repeat implications of prostitution, shameless geekery, vorpal sword, mentions of Arkansas
> 
> Another prompt from the kinkmeme

~*~

**Once**

One would think that place in Tangiers would be unbeatable, so far as filthy and disgusting are concerned, but one – “one” meaning Arthur – would be mistaken, because this shithole in Little Rock, Arkansas has left that place in Tangiers in the dust. And in the grime, the revolting overflowing toilet, and in the something-that-is-probably-dried-blood on the jukebox. 

He’s not actually _sitting_ at the bar, because there is no fucking way in hell that his ass, even in khakis, is going to be touching the Budwiser-and-sweat-soaked plastic of a barstool, so he’s standing stiffly in front of the bar, glaring at his glass of “scotch”, waiting for the fucking contact. The contact whose lights he will cheerfully and professionally punch out for setting this Turkish prison of a bar as the meeting place, given half a reason. 

“Haven’t seen you hear before.” The accent is British, the shoes are well-worn Chuck Taylors, and the suit is….well, Arthur doesn’t know what the suit is. Salvation Army would be his first guess. He doesn’t know what else he’d expect in a place like this. All of the above seem to belong to a broad-shouldered man wearing a cocky smirk and a _mesh shirt_. Arthur didn’t think those really existed. “So what’s a flash bloke like you doing in a place like this?”

Arthur restrains the urge to sigh and bury his face in his hands. Instead, he just growls, “Fuck off,” and keeps glaring at the drink he has no intention of ingesting.

The guy raises an eyebrow at him. “Fuck off, is it?” he muses, leaning his elbows on the unspeakably sticky bartop. “Not very friendly, and you a stranger in town.”

Now Arthur does give an exasperated sigh. “I’m not in the market,” he snaps. “And if I were, this is not the kind of market I’d be in.”

The guy frowns, eyes Arthur up and down in a way that Arthur is supremely irritated to find is not entirely without appeal, in a dirty back-alley kind of way. “I’m not sure I take your meaning. Why else would you be here?”

Arthur’s temper is fraying too much to register that the accent is far more upscale than the suit and entirely out of place in Arkansas. “Perhaps because I’m waiting for someone who has a sadistic sense of humour.”

The guy casts a long, measuring glance around the bar, and looks pleased. “That would explain it,” he agrees, moving a little closer to Arthur. “Come on, then, let’s have a game of billiards until your mysterious someone shows up. On me.”

And there goes the last of Arthur’s temper. “I’m sure you and your obviously false accent do an _excellent_ business in grubby hillbilly establishments such as this, but for the second and last time, I’m not buying, so go peddle your…..wares to someone who might be impressed.” He’s proud of himself for not flashing his gun.

The guy blinks at him, frowns again, eyes going slightly darker, hand making the tiniest movement towards what Arthur is abruptly sure is a shoulder holster. “So you’re not looking for a Mr. Eames, then?”

And Arthur thinks, _Oh, fuck me._

**Twice**

Eames is dancing his ass off, and Arthur is watching said ass like it holds the secrets to the universe. It might, for all he knows, in those ridiculously tight jeans. So might that expansive chest, every line of muscle visible under an equally tight white undershirt. He’s pretty sure that mouth does, and if it doesn’t, it sure as fuck _should_. 

He’s a bit hypnotized by the smooth, fluid movement of Eames’ hips as the other man’s body keeps time with the frenetic beat, and though the music’s all wrong and Eames has no mustache, Arthur suddenly has a vision of Freddie Mercury, and his train of thought goes right off the rails.

When it comes back, he sees that a moderately well-dressed older man has his hand on Eames’ shoulder and is shout-whispering into Eames’ ear. It’s not the mark they’re tailing, so it’s most likely just an attempted run-of-the-mill bar pick-up, but it still raises Arthur’s hackles. He ignores the fact that it's not actually his _professional_ hackles being raised.

Eames pulls back to look the guy in the face, grins hugely, and points to Arthur. The man looks disappointed, but nods, slips Eames a piece of paper and blatantly gropes Eames’ ass before disappearing into the crowd.

Eames bounds over to where Arthur’s sitting, still grinning like an idiot. “He wanted to know how much for the night,” he half-yells in Arthur’s ear. 

Arthur’s shoulders go stiff, and he searches the crowd, trying to find the guy again. “So what price’d you quote him?”

Eames’ grin takes on positively shark-like proportions. “I told him you’d already paid for the entire week.”

**Three (Times a Lady)**

It’s a forge Arthur hasn’t seen before. She’s got pointed ears, the unlikely proportions of a superhero, the skimpy outfit and boots to match, and an evil gleam in her amethyst eyes. She looks all wrong for a true human female, but makes sense in context, as this mark is a die-hard Dungeons and Dragons geek, despite being the CEO of a promising software company. Or perhaps there’s no “despite”. Arthur looks a little closer, realizes her eyes are actual amethysts, and snorts into his ale.

Eames is draped all over the mark, boobs the size of watermelons barely restrained by leather which exactly matches the colour of her eyes, and the mark is clearly in Confrontation With An Evil Sorceress heaven. Arthur’s pretty sure the guy has cast himself as some sort of unshakable Hero in this scenario, square jaw, truth-justice-righting-all-wrongs-cape-billowing-in-the-wind and all, and he wonders why the guy doesn’t just go ahead and fucking dream himself into being a Vallejo painting, if that’s what gets his rocks off. 

A projection [one of the mark’s; a literal _troll_ , for Christ’s sake] comes leering up to Eames; Arthur is just close enough to hear the words “trollop” and “doxy”. Eames arches one eyebrow in offended disbelief, but before anything else can happen, the mark leaps off his barstool, throws himself protectively in front of Eames and rattles off some monologue about insulting the honour of a lady, even those who’ve strayed from the path of Might and Right deserve simple respect blah blah Lawful Lawful bullshit, and suddenly the mark’s whipped out a gigantic vorpal sword, Eames is backflipping across the room, flinging magic missiles and grinning like a maniac, and the entire tavern starts pulling weapons and throwing punches. 

Arthur sighs, yanks the +15 daggers out of his bandolier, thinks, _Fucking paladins and their goddamn predictable chivalry_ , and sneak attacks like a motherfucker.

**Fourth:**

It’s not the first time Eames has appeared on Arthur’s doorstep drunk as a lord and beat up, and Arthur is wearily sure it won’t be the last. It is the first time Eames has shown up pouting like a three-year-old who’s been denied more candy, however, and no matter how unwisely, that piques Arthur’s curiosity. 

“This is new,” he says as he gently dabs blood from Eames’ forehead.

“ ‘S the same forehead I’ve always had,” Eames replies grumpily; he’s bitching about the clean-up process more than usual, which is somehow endearing, if counter-productive. “When I’m awake, that is.”

Arthur grins wryly. “I mean the sulking,” he clarifies. “When you’re drunk, that is.”

“I don’t sulk,” Eames argues; Arthur gives him a look, and he amends, “Perhaps a bit.”

“Perhaps a _lot_ ,” Arthur corrects. “Lost the fight, I take it?”

“I most certainly did _not_ ,” Eames protests. He slaps at Arthur’s hands as Arthur swipes the wound with antiseptic. “OW, you twat, that BURNS me!”

Arthur slaps Eames’ hands in return and carefully applies antibiotic ointment. “So?” he presses, knowing he’s going to regret asking. “If you didn’t lose the fight, why the sulk?”

Eames scowls, hesitating as if he’s not sure he wants to answer. “Do I look like a cheap hooker to you?”

Arthur stops in the middle of tearing open a Band-Aid. “What?”

“This bloke offered me fifteen Euros for a blowjob,” Eames complains. “ _Fifteen_ , Arthur. With all my vast experience and expertise?” 

Arthur tries, and fails, to smother a laugh; Eames is not amused, if the way his scowl deepens is any indicator, which of course only makes Arthur laugh harder and now the Band-Aid is stuck to his fingers. 

“No, Mr. Eames,” he says once he’s gotten himself under control. “I’m sure your vast experience and expertise are worth at least twenty,” and doesn’t even bother to dodge when Eames kicks him in the shin.

**Fifth**

Arthur is standing outside the Teatro di San Carlo, waiting for the rest of the team to show up. He’s not particularly fond of opera, but Saito chose the meeting place, and well, what Saito wants…

He checks his watch for the third time – three minutes until everyone else is late – and when he looks up, he sees Eames talking to an ancient woman in a wheelchair. He’s down almost one knee, so that he’s eye-level with the woman, and she’s giving him some sort of instruction; Eames’ smile is wide and unusually respectful, almost deferential. There’s something going between them that Arthur can’t interpret, but his brain stopped processing properly the moment he realized that Eames is wearing a Brioni tuxedo and he can’t think in anything but vowel sounds. 

Eames chuckles; Arthur can’t hear the noise, but he’s very familiar with the expression that accompanies it. He didn’t think Eames had any relatives in Italy, and Eames also appears a little flirtier than one would expect him to be towards an elderly relation.

The woman leans forward to straighten his tie and lapels in a manner that is unexpectedly possessive, then she lays a hand against Eames’s face. He kisses her frail knuckles with surprising care, stands, bows, and saunters towards Arthur. 

“Making new friends?” Arthur tries for casual, but his eyes are all over the tux and it’s possible he’s moments from slobbering.

Eames grins, one of those sitting-on-top-of-the-world grins that light up his eyes and makes total strangers stop and stare and wonder what they’re doing wrong with their lives. “Ninety-eight years old, and looking for a handsome young man to escort her on her last trip around the continent,” he reveals, utterly fucking up the lines of his suit by sticking a hand in one pocket. It’s physically painful. “At an unusually competitive rate of pay.”

Arthur swallows hard, and restrains himself from inching towards Eames so that he can _smell_ the suit, for the love of Christ. “Sounds like it would have been fun,” he says neutrally as possible, because it’s quite, quite clear by the wicked gleam in his eyes that Eames knows exactly what Arthur is restraining himself from doing.

The lady in question gives Eames a wink as she rolls by, he blows a kiss to her, and the smile that breaks across her face makes her look eighty, tops. “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.”

“What?” Arthur didn’t think it was possible for any suit, even a Brioni, to actually impair his brain function, but for the life of him, Eames is not making any sense. “You’re…looking forward to it?”

Eames turns back to Arthur. “Of course,” he says, and laughs aloud at the stunned look on Arthur’s face. “Oh, I didn’t refuse her, darling. She’s ninety-eight, Arthur. Ninety-eight, still planning a Grand Tour, still looking for a bit of totty to keep in a ridiculously lavish manner so she can show off to her friends. How on earth could I turn that down?” 


End file.
